


Home Is Where the Dubious Magic Is

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Descriptions of Anxiety, Established Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, M/M, Magical Mason Hewitt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: Everything feels wrong.He looks down and yeah, that’s not his body. The skin’s too pale, the legs too skinny. Those aren’t his hands, that’s not his stomach -- those definitely, definitely aren’t his Captain America briefs.He doesn’t own Captain America briefs.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GinaLinetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinaLinetti/gifts).



> Cor's birthday calls for a cliche trope with a McHaleinski twist! HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY COR, I HOPE THIS DOESN'T SUCK. <3
> 
> thanks to Kat for the beta, you da real MVP.

Everything smells wrong.

That’s Derek’s first thought. 

It feels like his head is wrapped in cellophane, like he’s underwater. 

Everything is dulled, but there’s a sharp ache in his skull that he distantly acknowledges as a headache. He has no idea _why_ he has a headache. He doesn’t get those. The only time his head hurts is when he hits it against something hard, and considering he’s lying on an incredibly soft mattress, that definitely didn't happen anytime recently. 

Actually, the mattress is _too_ soft.

Derek’s eyes fly open, heart beating quickly, hard against the back of his ribcage. 

Scott’s face is in front of his. The room is dark enough that Derek can barely pick out his features, but it’s definitely Scott. He’s sleeping on his stomach, lashes a thick smudge against his cheeks, mouth soft at the corners. The sheets are pushed down to his waist, torso naked, dimples at the bottom of his spine on display. The stark black of his double band tattoo stands out in the darkness. 

Derek’s breath catches in his throat, trying to think, trying to remember. Usually, it’s not hard. It’s not like he can get drunk and forget. Roofies work their way out of his system as quickly as they enter it. If he doesn’t remember where he is, it would be for a magical reason. 

He doesn’t know what magical thing could have happened that would have him waking up in Scott McCall’s bed -- Fuck. 

Derek scrambles out of bed and trips away, drywall scraping against his shoulder blades as he leans against it for support. His heart is tripping in his chest, way too fast, like he’s been fighting. All the air pushes to the top of his lungs and Derek realizes -- 

Everything feels wrong. 

He looks down and yeah, that’s not his body. The skin’s too pale, the legs too skinny. Those aren’t his hands, that’s not his stomach -- those definitely, definitely _aren’t_ his Captain America briefs. 

He doesn’t _own_ Captain America briefs. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Derek snarls. 

That’s definitely not his voice. 

Scott’s up and next to him so quickly that Derek startles, mind struggling to catch up while his body starts to shake. It feels like shock, like he’s lost blood or something -- head swimming with dizziness, chest squeezing tight. Derek has no idea what’s happening, he can’t _breathe_. 

“Hey, hey,” Scott’s saying, and his palms are warm on Derek’s back, gentle. “Breathe, it’s okay. Listen to my voice.”

Scott catches Derek’s hand and presses it to his chest. Derek’s palm is slick with sweat, fingers strangely numb. 

“Breathe with me,” he says, taking exaggerated inhales and exhales. Derek tries to match him, _breathe_ , but it’s hard with Scott’s hand around his wrist and his eyes looking into Derek’s with such obvious concern. 

Derek has to look away, look at the ground. He can barely focus with Scott so close, can’t calm himself down. Fuck. It takes a solid minute, but Derek manages to wrangle his pulse, taking deep gulps of air, as if the oxygen in the room is going to run out.

“Was it a nightmare?” Scott asks, after Derek’s visibly more calm. 

“No, I --” god, his voice is all wrong, this whole thing is all wrong -- 

“Stiles?” 

“‘M not Stiles,” Derek says, tipping away from Scott, back against the wall, chest heaving. His head is swimming, he feels so exhausted. 

“What?” Scott asks, scrunching up his face. 

“I’m not Stiles,” Derek says, pushing past Scott until he’s in the middle of the room. It’s still too dark to really see with these stupid human eyes. The curtains are those heavy, black-out ones that teenage boys have so they can sleep until 4pm. 

“Uhm, okay?” Scott asks. It sounds like he’s humoring Derek more than anything. Maybe Scott’s used to weird outbursts from Stiles, declarations like this. It wouldn’t be surprising. 

“Just --” Derek strides over to the window and tugs the curtain open, flooding the room with light so that he can see. Scott flinches back, not expecting it, and there’s so much skin. Too much skin, honestly. Derek really didn’t need to see Scott in briefs that tight. Ever. 

“I need clothes,” Derek says roughly, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide Stiles’ skinny torso. 

“Okay,” Scott says, still frowning, but nodding along. He goes to the closet and grabs stuff out, throwing them to Derek who -- doesn’t catch them. He flails a bit, but the clothes fall to the floor. 

Flushing, Derek grabs them up and pulls them on. Stupid human reflexes. There’s no discernible scent on the clothes, making Derek feel incredibly weird about not knowing whose clothes these are. The jeans fit fine, but the shirt is pretty big, loose on him -- this body, Stiles’ body --

“Is this _mine_?” Derek asks. He’s pretty it’s his. The red long sleeve with the thumbholes -- he thought he lost it ages ago, before he left with Braeden. He hasn’t seen it in years. 

“That’s Derek’s,” Scott says, squinting at him. “Do you think… are you Derek?”

“Yes,” Derek snarls, aggressively shoving his thumb through the slit in the cuff. He takes off towards the door. “We need to go to my apartment.”

“Wait, wait,” Scott says, in front of him in an instant. Derek yelps and takes a quick step back, teetering like he’s going to fall over before righting himself. This whole not having wolf powers thing seems more difficult than he remembers. Stiles’ body is probably to blame, with its stupidly low center of gravity and inability to stay upright. 

“What?” Derek snaps, managing to sound intimidating. He doesn’t like the way Scott’s frowning at him with a hurt expression, but he also doesn’t like _not being in his body_. 

“You’re Derek?” 

“Yes, Scott, I’m Derek.”

“O-okay, tell me something only Derek and I would know,” Scott says, face lighting up like he thought of something very clever. It’s cute, on his face, and Derek hates that -- that he thinks Scott's cute, that he can’t stay upset because Scott’s looking at him expectantly. 

“You cried,” Derek says quickly, face flushing as he remembers, heart beating a little harder. There’s an interesting piece of drywall over Scott’s shoulder that he looks at instead of making eye contact. “When I was human and Lydia screamed -- we didn’t say anything, but you -- you cried.”

Scott blinks at him, taking a step back. “Uh, shit.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, then realizes -- “Put some clothes on, we should go.”

Thankfully, Scott doesn’t argue. He gives Derek another long look before grabbing clothes and tugging them on. Derek absolutely doesn’t watch all that skin getting swallowed up under fabric.

They’re silent as Scott pulls his shoes on and leads them out of the apartment, unlocking the sensible Ford Focus he replaced his dirt bike with last year. The engine is quiet as Scott turns the car on, radio filtering some Top 40 station that Scott switches to the alternative rock station with a disgruntled face. 

They still don’t say anything, letting the silence carry on even though it’s obvious Scott wants to say _something_. He keeps fidgeting and banging his fingers against the steering wheel, casting glances at Derek before looking back at the road. 

He stays quiet though, much to Derek’s relief. He’s still processing, still trying to fit the pieces together. There’s too much adrenaline rushing through his veins, filling up his head with white noise. 

Things have been quiet lately, but that’s always how it always starts, right? Things have been quiet in Beacon Hills, must be time for supernatural shenanigans. It’s clockwork. Long stretches of peace between chaotic bursts of bad shit. It’s still happening, years after Scott established his pack.

Sometimes Derek has no idea why he bothered coming back. 

“You okay?” Scott asks. The concern in his voice reminds Derek why he bothered coming back. There’s a pack here, a pack with an alpha that cares, a place to call home. There’s comfort in being here, building a new family, a new life.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, biting back a sarcastic comment, knowing Scott’s just as confused as he is. It’s not fair to take this -- whatever this is -- out on him. 

Scott gives him a look, all too perceptive, but doesn’t say anything. Derek’s grateful for that, at least. Less grateful for the way his pulse leaps when Scott grabs his hand, squeezing reassuringly before snatching his hand back when Derek tenses up.

“Sorry,” he says, mouth twisting regretfully. He smiles a little sideways, eyes flicking over to Derek as he slouches down. “You’re all Stiles. It’s throwing me off.”

“It’s not a problem,” Derek lies, knowing that his heart jumps even if _he_ can’t tell that it does. Hopefully he’s enough of a mess of anxiety to keep Scott from really noticing. Ideally, he’d be able to shut it all down, keep Scott from getting a read on his chemosignals, but considering this body isn’t his -- that he has no way of knowing how it reacts -- that’s not an option. 

“It’s not,” Scott says. “I know everything is weird right now, I won’t -- I won’t do… that.”

“It’s not --” _like that_ , Derek wants to say, palms sweating. But, what _is_ it like? Less than a half hour ago, he opened his eyes to Scott’s sleeping face and was _happy_. A quick moment of bliss, in that soft space in between dreaming and awake, before the panic set in. 

Derek doesn’t know if he wants to understand _why_. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says, meaning it. Scott looks at him again before shrugging and nodding. He doesn’t reach for Derek again. Derek can’t tell if he’s alright with that, or disappointed. 

They’re silent the rest of the ride. Derek stares out the window and ignores Scott’s presence in the driver’s seat. It’s not hard, considering the lack of awareness a human has. No personal scents to categorize, Scott’s body is too far away. No heartbeat to keep track of; all of the noisy mechanics of the body don’t make a sound wrapped up in bone and muscle and fat. 

All Derek can smell is the greasy interior of the car. All he can hear is the rumble of the engine. 

Scott might as well not be there, he’s so still. So unlike how he was when he was first bitten and still growing into his fangs, his body. Still prone to human clumsiness, unsure of himself. Now he’s all wolf, tightly controlled power and lethal energy.

Now he’s 24 and ready to take over the clinic, a True Alpha with a reputation. He holds himself with confidence, makes decisions without hesitation. He confers with other packs, and takes bitten wolves under his wing, and makes any other peaceful supernatural creature feel at home. Makes _Derek_ feel at home, like he has since he was 19, welcoming Derek back to Beacon Hills with open arms and a warm smile; letting Derek slip back into their lives like he was never gone. 

There’s a lot that Derek likes about Scott, that he admires. There’s so much he’s grateful for, so much they owe each other for the years they’ve spent fighting side-by-side. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Scott says as the Jeep comes to a shaky stop outside of Derek’s building. The look on Scott’s face is so sincere, Derek bites down any negativity. 

“Of course we will,” Derek snorts, instead, unclipping his seatbelt. “Body swap is pretty low on the list of bullshit we’ve had to deal with.”

“Exactly,” Scott says, hand reaching out to curl around Derek’s. It’s quick, over in a flash, but Derek can still feel himself flush, heart thudding in his chest. Scott looks contrite for a moment. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Derek grunts, getting out of the car. It’s not like Scott doesn’t _ever_ touch him. Wolves are touchy-feely by nature, and the pack is no exception to that rule. Scott's incredibly tactile, using his touch to reassure and support and comfort. It’s not a big deal. Except that it might be.

“Stiles is still asleep,” Scott says, tipping his head to listen in. 

“Of course he is,” Derek says, rolling his eyes, more fond than he means it to be. Stiles still sleeps like a 16 year old, dead to the world until the middle of the afternoon if he’s left to his own devices. 

“C’mon,” Scott says, leading the way. Derek lets him, taking the stairs behind Scott quickly. When they get to the second floor, Derek’s thighs are burning, breathing short and stupidly labored. 

“Stiles is out of shape,” Derek grumbles. “I thought he started running.”

“He runs for like three days and then complains about having to wake up before work,” Scott says, fond smile on his lips, eyes tracking over Derek’s face -- _Stiles’_ face. Derek squirms, trying not to think about it too hard. “He usually does yoga.”

“Yoga,” Derek says, bemused. 

“Yoga,” Scott agrees, turning away with a laugh. There’s a jingle of keys, and Derek’s door swings open. 

“Do you have a key to my place?” Derek asks, incredulously, following Scott into the loft. “When the hell did that happen?”

“Stiles does,” Scott says, eyebrows raising. “Is this unexpected? It’s _Stiles_. He’s probably had a copy of your key since you moved in.”

“I hate that you’re right about that,” Derek says, sliding Stiles’ shoes off and chucking them by the door. Scott kicks his shoes off too, making his way back into the bedroom with a raised eyebrow. Derek follows. There’s not much else he can do right now. It might be his house, but if Stiles wakes up to his own face hovering above him, he’d freak out. 

Derek doesn’t feel like getting Stiles’ face punched by Derek’s fist while Stiles is in Derek’s body, unable to fully control Derek’s strength. 

“You know, we’re not positive it’s Stiles in your body,” Scott says, as they edge into Derek’s massive bedroom. “It could be someone else. It could be whatever did this to you.”

“Oh, right,” Derek says, leaning against the doorframe, watching the rise and fall of his own chest. Stiles is sleeping like Stiles usually does, limbs spread eagle across Derek’s bed, mouth open -- it’s a weird look on Derek. 

“Lemme figure out what could have possibly caused the body swap,” Derek says, flatly. “ _Then_ we’ll wake up whoever is in my body to hash it out. Give me, like, two hours.”

“I didn’t realize how scathing your sarcasm was until it was coming out of Stiles’ mouth,” Scott says, with an indulgent smile. Derek rolls his eyes and ignores the warm feeling in his chest. 

“Just. Wake him up?” Derek asks. Scott shrugs. 

“Sure.”

Scott doesn’t _look_ sure for a moment, but he sits on the edge of Derek’s bed and pokes at Stiles-in-Derek’s-body. 

“Stiles?” he asks. 

Stiles sleeps like the dead, so Scott repeats himself. Louder this time. More pokes.

It’s weird watching his body stir, watching his own eyes open. The twist to Derek’s mouth is all Stiles as he looks up at Scott in confusion. 

“Wha’?” he asks, stifling a yawn with his fist. He blinks a few times, wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck?”

“Stiles --”

“What the _fuck_?” 

Stiles is looking at Derek, eyes wide and disbelieving. It’s weird to see the expressions that flit across Derek’s own face. It’s all very _Stiles_ , the way he frowns sharply and sits up, shoulders still hunched because he’s never going to get over his slouch. His hands are already going, flinging out in front of him, an extension of his confusion. 

That’s when he pauses and _looks_ at his hands.

“Did we get body swapped?” he whines. Derek’s face goes elastic with the pout, bottom lip big and exaggerated. 

“Jesus, put that away,” Derek mutters, pushing off from the door frame so he can get Stiles some clothes. He’s annoyed by how quickly Stiles figured it out, how he’s not even that freaked about it. Derek had a _panic attack_ , but Stiles is totally fine. “My face isn’t supposed to do _that_.”

“And my face isn’t supposed to be perma-frowning, so check yo’self,” Stiles snaps. 

“Is my voice always this high, or is it just because you’re bitching?” Derek asks, frustration bubbling in his chest. He’s not going to deal with Stiles’ attitude on top of being in Stiles’ stupid body. There are lines that they don’t need to cross. 

“ _Me_?” Stiles asks, ripping the comforter back to swing his legs over -- except. Yeah. That’s Derek’s dick. Scott leaps up and takes a step away from the bed as Stiles yanks the bedspread back over his lap before staring down in horror like he doesn’t have a dick of his _own_. 

“You sleep _naked_?” Stiles asks. Derek didn’t know his face could get that _red_. 

“Yes, I do,” Derek says, stiffly, turning back to his closet. He grabs a shirt and pants and underwear, throwing them at Stiles’ head. Stiles snatches all three pieces of clothing out of the air, then looks at his hands in awe -- _Derek’s_ hands. Derek’s reflexes. 

“Holy shit,” he says, a little dazed. 

“Hurry up,” Derek snaps. 

“You could leave,” Stiles says, raising both eyebrows at him. 

“It’s my body,” Derek growls, purely out of spite. He _was_ going to leave. Until Stiles said something about it. “I’ve seen it all before.”

“And you’re wearing _my_ body,” Stiles says, huffing, shoving a hand through his hair like he does when he’s frustrated. “That doesn’t mean I’m chill with you getting naked in front of me.”

“Okay, we’re going to the living room,” Scott says, quickly, making his way to Derek’s side. “As much as I love hearing the two of you bicker, we need to figure this out.”

Scott grabs Derek around the bicep and tugs him out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind them. Before the door closes, Derek sees Stiles sticking his tongue out at them both, so Derek flips him off. 

Scott lets go of Derek’s arm and immediately goes to the kitchen to pull out Derek’s electric kettle. 

“Is the situation that distressing?” Derek asks, leaning his hip against the counter. Stiles is shorter than he is, so the edge digs into his hipbone uncomfortably. “You need tea to cope?”

“Maybe I like tea,” Scott says, with a shrug. He is tense, though. Derek doesn’t need his heightened senses to tell. The lines of his shoulders are tight, drawn up. There’s a crease in his brow that deepens every so often, like he’s thinking too hard. 

Derek leans around Scott to get the coffee pot, making enough for him and Stiles -- whenever Stiles decides to roll out of bed -- then says, “I know you do.”

The only reason Derek even has tea is because Scott likes it, and Derek likes accommodating Scott. If the smile Scott gives him is anything to go by, Scott might know that too. Derek feels himself blush for no good reason, and hopes Stiles’ cheeks aren’t as red as they usually are when he’s embarrassed. 

“Gross, stop being gross,” Stiles says, coming out of the bedroom, levelling Derek with a _look_. Derek’s not entirely sure what the _look_ is supposed to mean, but it’s definitely a _look_. “It’s amazing when these wolfy powers pick up on.”

“Don’t tease him, babe,” Scott says, absently, meeting Stiles’ eyes with a soft smile and -- it’s not okay. It’s really not okay. Seeing Scott looking at Stiles with overwhelming fondness in his eyes when Stiles is in Derek’s body -- Derek’s heart rate kicks up a notch.

God, what the fuck.

Scott and Stiles both look at him with wide eyes. 

“Stop that,” Stiles says, frowning. His muscles are tight as he watches Derek. “Stop freaking out, what the hell. Why is your heart so damn _loud_?”

“I -- it’s not my fault your body has adrenal issues,” Derek says, trying to get everything under control. It’s not Derek’s fault Stiles is so damn _jumpy_ and on edge all the time. It feels like a constant buzz of anxiety under his skin. Something he’s not used to having to experience. He’s too out of his element. 

“Don’t start,” Scott says, with a sigh, punching Stiles in the shoulder. Stiles sputters indignantly. 

“You’re lucky that didn’t hurt,” he says, arching his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want to unleash all this wolfy power on your ass.”

“No offense to Derek, but I’m stronger than he is.”

“Are you stronger than Derek while _Stiles_ is behind the wheel though?” Stiles asks, making an outrageous face and flexing his biceps. Making an outrageous face with _Derek’s_ face and flexing _Derek’s_ biceps. 

“Definitely,” Scott says, leering at Stiles playfully. 

Apparently, Stiles takes that as a challenge. He rocks forward and grabs Scott around the neck, trying to put him in a headlock. They scuffle for a minute, limbs flailing around, before they fall to the floor, grappling on the tile floor. Derek watches, knowing there’s nothing he could do to intervene with Stiles’ noodly arms.

It takes about 30 seconds before Scott’s pinning Stiles down with his hands around his biceps, thighs locked around his waist. 

Stiles is smiling like he always is around Scott, mouth curled with mischief, but Scott’s eyes are frozen wide and -- Derek gets it. Stiles is _Stiles_ so he probably isn’t thinking about the fact that it’s _Derek’s body_ that Scott's pinning down. 

And Stiles is using Derek’s _face_ to leer at Scott, and it’s really, really fucking confusing to see the light pink blush on Scott’s cheeks, the heavy rise and fall of his chest -- the way he licks his lips slowly and -- Stiles follows the movement like he always does, but that’s Derek’s _face_ that looks oh so interested and --

The tension snaps and Scott scrambles back, shooting a look at Derek, a little panicked and edgy -- Derek who is in Stiles’ body, who looks like Scott’s _boyfriend_ \-- before reaching out and helping Stiles to his feet.

“Told you,” Scott says, with a crooked smile, voice rough. He steps away after Stiles rises, putting some distance between them. 

“We should see Deaton about this,” Derek says, breaking the moment, trying to get them on track. “See if he knows what’s going on.”

“We should talk to Lydia and Mason too,” Scott says, tugging his phone out of his pocket. “See if they’ve felt anything happening lately.”

“I feel like they would have tried to get ahold of us if anything was going on,” Stiles says, getting a mug out of the cupboard before tugging the fridge door open. 

“There’s no creamer,” Derek tells him, knowing how Stiles likes his coffee too sweet and completely disgusting. Stiles makes a disappointed face and opens the pantry, rooting around. Probably for sugar. 

“Put that on the list,” he says, when he reappears with the whole bag of sugar in his hands. 

“There’s a pourer,” Derek says, resisting the urge to hit his head against the counter. “Literally right next to where the bag was. And it’s already on the list.” 

“Of course it is,” Scott says, sending a secretive smile Derek’s way. One that makes his heart jump a little in his chest. Derek looks away, accidentally catching Stiles’ eye. Stiles raises an eyebrow at Derek. Derek scowls at him. 

“Can we just -- Deaton, Lydia, Mason?”

“Yeah, we should go,” Scott says, pocketing his phone. 

“I didn’t get my coffee!” Stiles protests, pointing at the coffee maker with a pout. 

“Travel mugs,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Make me one.”

“Coffee black like your soul?” Stiles asks, putting his mug back and grabbing two travel cups from the top shelf. 

“Always,” Derek and Scott say, at the same time. 

Derek’s noise of protest is lost in the sound of Stiles and Scott’s collective cackling. 

 

 

There’s a kitty crisis at the clinic, so they head to Lydia’s house instead, arriving just behind Mason on his ridiculous lime green motorcycle. Mason lets Scott park the Jeep first, swooping in behind them before shutting off his bike, engine dying out with a low rumble. 

He’s grinning as he pulls off his helmet, looking far too excited for what Scott said was an ‘ _emergency meeting -- but kind of a secret one, don’t tell the pack yet._ ’

“At least he’s enthusiastic,” Stiles says, once Derek points it out. “He could be a miserable asshole, considering he almost died when he became emissary, but he’s not… Unlike _some_ of us.”

“Yeah, you,” Derek says, arching an eyebrow. 

“Only right now, when I look in a mirror,” Stiles says, nonsensically. “Because I’m wearing your face. AKA, you’re the grumpy asshole.”

“Keep trying,” Derek says, clapping Stiles on the shoulder and getting out of the car. There’s a poorly restrained look of amusement on Scott’s face that makes Derek smirk.

“Alright, what’s the sitch?” Mason asks, once he’s fastened his helmet to his bike and they’re all standing in the driveway. He rubs his hands together eagerly. “What’s the 411? Gimme the _lowdown_. I’m so ready.”

“For an emergency situation?” Stiles snorts, noise bursting out of him all big and exaggerate. It sounds weird coming from Derek’s face. Derek’s tempted to hit him and tell him to stop acting like _himself_. It’s making Derek look bad. 

“We haven’t _really_ had anything to do for months,” Mason says, with a self-conscious shrug, frowning. Oh to be young and eager again. Derek makes a disgruntled face that Stiles definitely sees, a surprised laugh escaping him before he can think twice about it. 

Derek feels weirdly accomplished. Mason looks even more confused. 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Scott asks, diverting Mason’s attention by slinging his arm around Mason’s shoulder, steering him towards the door while Stiles and Derek take up the rear. “No epic battles or monster threats.”

“No way to test out my abilities,” Mason sighs, wiggling his hand at Lydia’s front door until it unlocks with an audible _click_. Derek will probably never get over that -- the spontaneous magic. Druids are one thing -- wendigos and chimeras and kanimas are all run-of-the-mill types of mythology -- but _mages_.

Magic is usually an entity contained in a person, manifesting in very specific ways -- fangs, super strength, full-body transformations -- but mages can produce and manipulate magic in a way that seemingly defies every rule of the universe. 

“You seem to have gotten the hang of it,” Scott says, smiling at Mason proudly. 

“Working on it,” Mason says with a shrug, but he looks pleased. 

“If you’re done,” Stiles says, obliterating the moment so that he can slip past Scott and Mason. “I smell food.”

“Sorry,” Derek says to them. Stiles seems to have forgotten he’s wearing _Derek’s_ face while being impolite. Derek isn’t exactly a cuddly person, but he’s never rude to Mason. Or Scott. 

“He’s not feeling like himself,” Scott tells Mason, grinning at his own joke. The look on his face makes Derek laugh, stomach swooping.

“Oh, ha ha,” Stiles shouts, from another room. It sounds like Stiles’ voice came from the kitchen, so Derek wanders that way after taking off his shoes. He finds Stiles devouring a sandwich in front of Lydia. 

“I thought you didn’t eat tomatoes,” Lydia says, wrinkling her nose. She’s talking to Derek, technically, because Derek _hates_ tomatoes, but Stiles-in-Derek’s body doesn’t give a shit about things like food preference and _texture_ _issues_.

“He doesn’t,” Stiles says through a mouthful of what looks like turkey and bacon and wheat bread. Gross. “I do.”

“I don’t,” Derek agrees, just to be an asshole. If Stiles gets to do it, Derek does too. He picks up a sandwich and makes a show of pulling the pieces of tomato out. “He does.”

“You do?” Lydia asks, eyebrows still raised. “Stiles eats tomatoes.”

“Yup,” Stiles and Derek say at the same time. 

“They’re messing with you,” Scott says, interrupting the moment. Mason’s trailing along behind him, now devoid of his motorcycle jacket and shoes. Scott’s in his socks, too. 

Derek peers around the counter. Stiles still has his shoes on. No matter how many times Stiles been to Lydia’s, or Derek’s or Melissa’s, he never remembers to take off his shoes. He’s making Derek look bad by doing that in Derek’s body. 

Lydia must have the same thought, because she’s staring at Stiles’ feet as if they’re a particularly difficult math problem that she needs to solve. 

“Did you body swap?” she asks, after a moment’s silence. Silent except for chewing, of course. Both Scott and Mason look up from their own sandwiches, surprised. 

“Got it in one,” Stiles says brightly, holding his fist out for a knuckle bump. Lydia looks at his hand dubiously, before shaking her head. Stiles makes Derek’s body do that weird, noodly shrug thing he does. The very vision of nonchalance. 

“No way, really!” Mason says, a huge exclamation. Pieces of soggy bread land on the counter from his mouth. 

“Really!” Derek says with faux enthusiasm. “Woke up like this.”

On the other side of the kitchen, Stiles starts humming Beyonce. 

“Which is the reason why I called a secret emergency meeting,” Scott says, grabbing another sandwich from the pile. Lydia looks like she wants to protest how quickly the food is disappearing, but she doesn’t. Instead she gives them all an unimpressed look, lips pressed together in a thin line.

“We wanted to know if you felt anything weird,” Stiles says, grabbing another sandwich. “God being a werewolf is tiring work.”

“Fast metabolism,” Derek says, then clarifies for Lydia. “Foreign or malevolent magic.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at Derek, also looking unimpressed. Derek throws a discarded piece of tomato at his head simply because he can. 

“Nothing on my front,” Lydia says, humming. 

“Me either,” Mason says. “Wait, does this mean I get to say the --”

“Hit the books!” Stiles whoops, cutting Mason off. 

“Damn it!” Mason says, thwarted once again. 

“One day, you’ll say it,” Scott says, smoldering a laugh against his shoulder. “The student always surpasses the master.”

“Excuse you, babe,” Stiles says, indignantly. Derek doesn’t know how to feel about that -- the way it’s so obviously Derek’s voice calling Scott _babe_. “Please have faith in my abilities.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Scott teases, with that lopsided smile he reserves for Stiles. This is definitely worse. Having to watch Scott flirt with Stiles-in-Derek’s body is so much worse than anything that’s happened today. Including waking up in Stiles’ body. 

“Can we focus?” Derek asks, low and growly, making everyone frown at him. He makes Stiles face do the doe-eyed pout thing that it does so well, and the frowns disappear. 

“That’s scary,” Scott says. “I’m completely convinced and totally charmed.”

“Hey, that’s not me,” Stiles says, with a pout of his own. “Don’t compliment me when I’m not me.”

“He was complimenting _me_ ,” Derek says, correcting him. 

“Exactly,” Scott says with a winning smile. He reaches out, circling his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. Derek feels his stomach swoop again, and tries to ignore it. “It’s Derek.”

“True,” Stiles says, meeting Derek’s eyes. And Derek doesn’t know what _that_ is supposed to mean, so he ignores it, too. 

There seems to be a lot of things he’s ignoring in favor of keeping his sanity. 

“Okay, if you all are done doing… whatever _that_ was, we should get started.” Lydia’s looking between the three of them impatiently. Only Scott manages to look sheepish. 

Since neither Lydia or Mason have felt anything, Lydia starts quizzing Scott on recent pack relations, if the borders are secure, whether or not he’s felt any disturbances in his territory while they shift through books and look at the bestiary on her computer. 

“You know the whole pack thing doesn’t work like that,” Derek says, after hearing her sling questions at Scott so quickly Derek’s sure he’s stopped listening altogether. “There’s no weird telepathy.”

“I _know_ ,” Lydia says, exasperation coloring her voice. “I also know that any malicious energy that has enough power to do _this_ \--” she waves her hands between Derek and Stiles -- “should be traceable by some means.”

“So, we should trace it,” Stiles says, slumping backwards against the couch. There’s a half of a sandwich in his hand. Derek’s pretty sure it’s his fourth in the last 20 minutes. “Is there a way to trace it?”

“Probably,” Mason says, that same serious expression on his face that he always gets when he’s thinking about magic. “I could get a read on it, what kind of magic it is.”

“We probably should have started there,” Derek says. There’s a few books on the table that they were leafing through while bouncing ideas off each other. There’s information on soul switching and body jumping and possession, but straight up _body swap_ is not something that’s mentioned.

“Probably,” Mason agrees, in that cheery way of his. 

“I, personally, love the research montage,” Stiles says, with an indulgent grin. “It doesn’t _feel_ like a waste of time. I know so much more about vessel jumping than I ever thought I would.”

“ _Babe_.” Is all Scott says, amused but exasperated. Derek relates. 

Stiles does say anything, just smiles at Scott so winningly, Derek can practically see Scott go boneless with it. That stupid swoopy feeling comes back, so Derek looks down at his book, trying to ignore them. 

When he takes a peek across the room, Lydia’s watching him curiously, so Derek stares at her until she shrugs and looks away. There will be no analyzing stares today, he doesn’t have time for that. 

They really do have to deal with the research montage while Mason sets up. It’s a fairly simple spell, according to him. Derek can barely wrap his head around the fact that Mason does _spells_ , much less figure out the skill level required for the spell, so Derek takes Mason’s word for it. 

There are stinky candles that make Scott and Stiles’ nose wrinkle up when they’re lit. Little bundles of crunchy herbs. Mason’s working on some sort of drawing with a compass and a ruler that Derek doesn’t want to think about too hard, far too superstitious for his own good. 

“How does Stiles have a handle on being a werewolf?” Lydia asks, after they realize Mason’s going to be drawing for awhile.

“Probably the same reason Derek had a panic attack,” Scott says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Both Lydia and Stiles look surprised. Derek shrugs dismissively. “He usually doesn’t get them, but Stiles does, and Stiles’ body reacts a certain way when he’s anxious. Derek has impeccable control over his wolf, so his body remembers what to do even when Stiles is in control.”

“Or, it’s magic,” Derek says, dryly.

“Or, it’s magic,” Scott agrees, with a silly smile that makes his cheeks dimple sweetly. Derek looks away quickly, heart picking up. He hears Stiles chuckle and absolutely does not look at either of them. Instead he looks at Mason, who’s glowing a weird light blue color.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Derek asks. 

“Uhm, well,” Mason says, looking sheepish. He flaps his hands, and the magic dissipates, candles snuffing out. The air smells like cinnamon apple smoke, heavy with Mason’s power. 

“Well?” 

“This might have been me,” Mason says, wincing. Everyone stares at him. 

“You did this?” Lydia asks. “You body swapped them?” She looks impressed. 

Derek is _not_ impressed. Derek is the furthest from impressed, actually. 

“That’s not _exactly_ what I was going for,” Mason says, sounding contrite. 

“How?” Stiles asks, looking as harassed as Derek feels. “Actually, no, just. _Why_?”

“I didn’t think it would work!” Mason exclaims, throwing his hands up. A book leaps off the table and slams back down in protest. 

“Do _not_ levitate my books, Mason,” Lydia says, even though he’s already apologizing, hands curling up in his lap. The pout ruins the image a little, but Derek gets it. No one likes being scolded by Lydia Martin. 

“Okay, so, what did you do?” Scott asks, in that gentle and patient way of his that Derek wouldn’t be capable of right now. “We’ll reverse it.”

“Well,” Mason starts, dragging out the world. Derek decides that he’s probably not going to like what Mason says next. “It doesn’t reverse.”

“It doesn’t?” Stiles demands, narrowing his eyes at Mason. “You performed irreversible magic on a pack mate? Didn’t even think twice, huh?”

“It’ll go away!” Mason says, defensively. “It goes away on its own.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Derek mutters, exchanging an exasperated look with Stiles. At least he isn’t the only one over whatever the hell is happening. 

“But the spell needs to be fulfilled?” Mason says, end of the sentence lilting up like a sentence. Like he’s not quite sure, or he’s attempting to lessen the blow of the words. 

“You’re stalling, Mason,” Lydia says. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, teeth digging into his bottom lip self-consciously. Derek would feel bad for him, but he definitely brought this on himself. He does appreciate the apologetic look Mason shoots his way. “I just wanted Derek to be happy. He seems lonely?”

Another statement phrased as a question to lessen the blow. 

Derek doesn’t even wince. It’s not like Mason is wrong, even if it isn’t _quite_ that simple. 

“So I just, you know, cast a spell that would help him find happiness!”

“Help him find happiness?” Stiles asks. “By switching bodies with _me_?”

“Magic works in mysterious ways,” Mason grumbles, sounding petulant. “It wasn’t like I purposefully did this to make you have an epiphany, Derek. The spell did it.”

It sounds like a witchy rom-com, if Derek’s being honest with himself. 

Only, in the rom-com, Derek would probably have an idea of what the hell he’s meant to be realizing. 

It’s not that he’s _unhappy_ , either. He’s the owner and landlord of a bought-and-paid-for apartment building, a volunteer firefighter, and the right hand wolf to the most powerful alpha on the West Coast. He has a whole found family thing going on with the pack, a diner he goes to every Sunday evening for dinner with Stilinski and Melissa and Parrish, _and_ he’s going to adopt a dog. 

Everything is great, actually. Considering where he was five, six years ago, things are close to perfect. 

Yeah, he’s lonely, but -- his eyes drift over to Stiles and Scott on the couch. With Stiles in Derek’s body… It looks like Derek could be sitting across from a mirror, watching their reflections interact. Except Derek doesn’t slouch like that. He doesn’t sit so close to Scott either, or lean into him quite so much, if at all.

He’s so lost in the image that it takes him a minute to realize Stiles is staring at him again. A look on his face is so purely _Stiles_ that Derek’s stomach swoops in confusion, and maybe something else, something he can’t quite name. 

That’s terrifying, Derek thinks, looking away. 

“Someone’s about to have an epiphany,” Lydia says, standing abruptly. “I don’t want to be in the room when it happens. Mason, come help me clean up.”

“What? Really?”

“Yup, kitchen!” Lydia’s gone quicker than Derek can blink, Mason on her heels. Derek feels equal parts dread and confusion. There’s something he’s missing, and he has a feeling he’s not going to like it once he figures it out. 

“Oh.”

There’s the epiphany. 

Derek tries to gauge the look on Scott’s face, but he’s just looking between Derek and Stiles quickly, brow furrowed. 

“Oh?” Derek prompts. 

“Which one of us it?” Scott asks. Derek watches his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. Realization dawns on Stiles’ face, and Derek wishes he could reach whatever conclusion Stiles managed to get to. 

“Which one what?” Derek asks, frustrated. Does he have time for this? Well... Probably. But that doesn’t mean he wants to deal with vague statements. 

“Wait, whoa, no,” Stiles says, jumping to his feet, reaction delayed. He stands next to the couch with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at Scott. “You seriously can’t ask him _that_.”

“Why not?” Scott says, patiently. “I want to know --”

“Why do you want to know?” Stiles says, shoulders coming up to his ears defensively. The corners of his mouth are tight, displeased. “What does that accomplish? What if he doesn’t even know?”

“I’m right _here_ ,” Derek growls, giving into his frustration. His stomach is churning uncomfortably. The palms of his hands are clammy. He doesn’t like this feeling, the claustrophobia of the anxiety this conversation is bringing up. 

“Unfortunately,” Stiles snaps. His voice is still low, level, but Derek can see he’s annoyed and frustrated and maybe a little scared, if the look on his face is anything to go by. 

“What are you afraid of?” Scott asks Stiles. “We’ve talked about this.”

Stiles freezes, eyes darting to Derek before they flit away back to Scott. 

“Talked about what?” Derek says, deciding to stand. Only when he stands, he starts pacing, like he can’t help himself. “Why doesn’t someone fucking explain what you two are even talking about.”

“ _See_ , he doesn’t even know,” Stiles says, flinging his hand out at Derek in exasperation. “We don’t have to have this conversation.”

“The conversation might be the solution,” Derek says. 

“Which one of us are you in love with?” Scott asks, plainly. 

Derek freezes in place, heart clenching up in his chest. Scott’s watching Derek like it’s that simple, like Derek knows the answer to that question off the top of his head. And yeah, he gets why Stiles didn’t want Scott to ask that question; almost wishes Scott _hadn’t_ asked that question. 

“That’s -- I’m not --”

“Give it up, old man,” Stiles says, frown deepening in a sulk. “I can smell it all over you. I’m like a goddamn vital sign monitor with this nose of yours.”

“It’s not that simple,” Derek grinds out, feeling the heat in his cheeks. 

“Then, enlighten us,” Stiles says, sharp and impatient. He’s over it already. He probably doesn’t want to hear what Derek has to say.

And the thing is…

Derek’s thought about this conversation more times than he could count. Thought about telling them, being honest. But there’s never an opportunity for the kind of talk that Derek wants to have. 

One where he tells them both that he doesn’t really know what he’s feeling, except that he’s feeling a lot of things for both of them. That he looks at them and it feels _right_. That he watches their relationship from the outside and aches, wishing he knew what it was like to be with them.

That it all cemented when he helped them move in together, helped them arrange their living room and watched as they made moon eyes at each other -- finally cohabiting and so excited, so in love. 

It hurts, sometimes, to want something so badly and not being able to articulate it -- not knowing if he can. 

But he doesn’t have a choice. Not with the spell. It’s not really about happiness, because Derek _is_ happy. It’s about settling this so that there’s no longer a weight in his gut over the two of them. It’s about closure. 

Derek wipes his hands on his jeans and takes a shaky breath. 

“I -- it’s both of you.”

“What?” Stiles demands, mouth softening in surprise. 

Derek’s heart is pounding so hard and loud in his head, he thinks he might pass out. 

“I thought so,” Scott says, clearing his throat. Stiles and Derek both look at him. “You’re not, like, subtle about it. Or I know you well enough to notice. Your face does this thing --” he gestures at Derek’s face loosely -- “you get brighter around us. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“It has been like, fucking _years_ since you went on a date,” Stiles adds, looking thoughtful. “That deputy was hot shit too, but you turned that ass down.”

“Don’t talk about Deputy Romo like that,” Scott says, mouth twitching at the corners. 

“Please, Deputy Romo knows he’s hot. Everyone knows Deputy Romo is hot. _Derek_ knows Deputy Romo is hot, and _yet_.”

“He’s not my type,” Derek says, with a long sigh. They’re both so insufferable. 

“What’s your type?” Stiles challenges, look in his eyes sharp and hot. 

“Skinny loud mouths and stubborn true alphas,” Derek says, tipping his chin up defiantly. 

Scott dissolves into giggles, cheeks pinking up. A warm feeling blooms open in Derek’s chest, and he’s so scared to be hopeful, but he’s so hopeful anyway. 

“We talked about this,” Scott says, after he’s gotten the laughter under control. The look in his eyes is so soft, so intent -- Derek doesn’t know if he can handle it. “You.”

“We might be up for it,” Stiles says slowly, sinking down next to Scott again. He leans into Scott’s space, like he needs the reassurance of Scott’s warmth. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, betraying his nerves. “If you are.”

“I am,” Derek says. It’s quick, embarrassingly quick, but he’s thought about it enough. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore. “I’m up for it.”

 

 

Derek wakes up overheated and sticky with sweat. Somehow, he migrated to the middle over the course of the night. Scott’s facing him, leg slung over Derek’s hip. Stiles is behind him, arm around his waist, bodies curved together. 

Everything smells right. He can pick out the individual scents of all three of them, hear the birds stirring in the trees down at street level. He can hear the trip of Scott’s heart as he wakes up slowly.

“Are you you?” Scott asks, whispering. Derek nods gently, trying not to wake Stiles up. He wants this moment -- waking up to Scott the right way, sunlight filtering through the curtain, making the whole room soft and lovely.

Scott props himself up on his elbow slowly, still looking at Derek with something like wonder in his eyes. He trails his fingers through Derek’s hair, traces the stubble on his face. There’s a smile at the corners of his mouth that Derek wants to kiss, but he waits, barely breathing. 

“You’re you,” Scott says, with a grin. 

“I’m me,” Derek says, with another little nod. It’s almost all he can do. Nod and agree, nod and agree. 

“Tell me something only Derek and I would know,” Scott says, playfully. 

“You kissed me,” Derek says, voice low. He picks up on Scott’s heart rate increasing. He can practically hear the blood rushing to Scott’s cheeks. He loves it, loves knowing the effect he has on Scott. “The summer after your sophomore year of high school.”

“I knew it,” Stiles says, arm tightening around Derek’s waist. His voice is thick with sleep. “I fucking knew it. Scott wouldn’t admit it.”

“Derek rejected me,” Scott pouts, looking down at Derek with a question in his eyes. “Why would I admit to it?” 

Derek sighs, trying to sink into his pillow more. It’s not difficult when Stiles is shifting so he’s hovering over Derek, pressing his weight into Derek’s shoulder. 

“You weren’t even 17,” Derek says, defensively. There’s a whole list of reasons. Things were difficult and complicated and really, incredibly messed up for a _long_ time. There was no time for any of that with Scott, and he was young -- young and fresh faced and way, way less jaded than Derek.

“That’s fair,” Stiles says, nose nudging the soft place behind Derek’s ear before he nips at Derek’s cartilage lightly. An unexpected thrill runs down Derek’s spine. Scott must sense it; his pupils dilate minutely, something only Derek can see.

“It was cruel,” Scott says, but Derek knows he’s teasing. He’s smiling. “I was traumatized.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Derek says. Stiles’ hand tightens on Derek’s hip. 

“You are,” Scott says, and he’s leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth. 

Derek turns his head so they kiss for real, ignoring the way sleep clings to their mouths, too impatient to wait. Scott makes a delighted noise and immediately kisses him back hard, tongue licking out to touch against Derek’s. 

Behind him, Stiles makes a breathy noise of approval and presses himself even closer to Derek, half hard dick nudging the curve of Derek’s ass in a way that makes him instinctively arch his back. He feels Stiles’ hand slip under his shirt and play over the stubborn weight at his hips, the soft curve of his stomach. 

Scott’s distracting him by threading his fingers through Derek’s hair again, tugging every so often, harder each time like he wants to see how far Derek will let him take it. 

The answer is pretty damn far. 

Derek groans and arches when Stiles scratches over his nipple, teeth dragging over the side of Derek’s neck before he presses kisses there. He can’t seem to make up his mind, dragging his nails through Derek’s chest hair before skating them down his stomach to trail the top of his shorts. 

It’s all too much with Scott at his front, kissing him in a way that’s so bone-meltingly good. Derek’s head is spinning. The only thing keeping him grounded is Scott’s hand on his face, pressure from the pads of his fingers on Derek’s jaw. The tiniest amount, like a reminder that Scott’s in control, and Derek loves it; loves the subtle possessiveness of the bruises Stiles is so valiantly trying to suck into his neck, the way Scott doesn’t seem to want to loosen his hold on Derek. 

Derek jumps in surprise when Stiles shoves a hand down the front of his shorts, gripping his cock tightly. Scott presses closer, sandwiching Derek between them like they know he’s going to fly out of his skin at any given chance. 

Scott pulls away enough for Derek to turn his head and kiss Stiles. The angle’s a little too sharp, their mouths barely meet, but it’s good. Stiles’ mouth tastes salty from the sweat that was on Derek’s skin as Derek licks against his lips. 

Stiles is jerking him off slow and tight, like they have all the time in the world. Scott’s ducked down to bite the outside of Derek’s neck, and Derek hopes more than anything that he leaves bruises. 

It’s quiet. That almost makes it more intense, the whole room heavy with silence except for their panting, the smack of lips, the dirty slide of Stiles’ hand on Derek’s dick. Scott leans back enough to watch, eyes hot as they sweep over Derek’s body.

Derek curls a hand over Scott’s hip and frees his bottom arm enough to shove Scott’s shorts down, licking his palm so he can get a hand on Scott’s cock. The angle is terrible, and his hand is mostly trapped, so he taps Scott’s hip, encouraging him to fuck up into the tight circle of Derek’s fist. 

Scott moans, breath stuttering out between them. Behind Derek, Stiles echoes him, pressing his hips closer to Derek’s, grinding his erection against Derek’s ass. There are layers between them, but for some reason, that makes it better; like Stiles can’t touch, like maybe he’ll get off without getting his dick out at all. Maybe he’ll cream his shorts while humping against Derek like he’s doing this for the first time. 

The thought is unexpectedly hot. 

The air is so thick with arousal, Derek can taste it. The pressure at the bottom of his stomach is building as Stiles drags his thumb through the precome at the head of Derek’s dick. Scott moans when Derek does the same to him, mouth dropping open in surprise. 

Derek can feel it when Scott starts to come, the tension is so palpable. Scott’s heart is pounding in Derek’s ears as his hips move faster. He’s panting, eyes squeezing shut right before he comes hard over the top of Derek’s knuckles, splattering his stomach and chest. 

“Fuck,” Stiles whimpers behind Derek, hand speeding up. Scott’s kissing Derek hard, tongue dipping into his mouth, tips of his fingers pressing into his jaw -- Derek clings to the feeling of the touch as he comes, mind going fuzzy as Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek’s shorts. 

Scott doesn’t even wait; he climbs over Derek, pressing Stiles back into the bed, kissing his mouth hard before tugging down his shorts and swallowing him down. Stiles yelps, burying his hand in Scott’s hair to tug, hips lifting off the bed. 

He’s not looking at Scott though, he’s looking at Derek, eyes so intense that Derek has to lean over and kiss him as a distraction. It feels like his heart’s going to beat right out of his rib cage when Stiles looks at him like that, and it’s not the time or the place to feel so vulnerable.

Stiles seems to get it, and he lets Derek kiss him, desperate for it. He lets Derek drag his teeth over the soft skin of his throat, lets him leave hickies in his wake. He curls one hand around the back of Derek’s neck and the other in Scott’s hair and goes boneless. 

It doesn’t take long for him to come. He’s the loudest, a low moan tearing from his throat as his body bows forward. Scott swallows him down before coming up for air -- mouth candy apple red, eyelashes wet with the unshed tears that sprang to his eyes when Stiles bucked up before he came. Derek has to kiss him; has to taste his warm, used mouth.

Scott giggles and kisses him back, sliding the taste of Stiles to Derek like a secret shared between them. Something electric curls in the bottom of Derek’s gut as he sinks down next to Stiles, bringing Scott with him. 

“Happy?” Scott asks, snuggling in close. He smells so content Derek feels dizzy. On his other side, Stiles is watching Derek, pressing his grin into Scott’s shoulder. There are bruises purpling on his neck, and Derek’s chest feels fit to burst with how warm it is.

“Yeah,” he agrees, softly. “Never happier.”

**Author's Note:**

> [on tumblrrr](queerlyalex.tumblr.com)


End file.
